Pickles sits up straighter. “I think McCullough ran with them, too. He was a big-shot high school football star. I remember him because he got aggressive with a girl once and she called the law. No one pressed charges and everything sort of got swept under the rug. But I always had my doubts about that guy.”
“Chief?” Skid taps on the doorjamb and enters my office. Nodding at Pickles, he passes a sheet of paper to me. “This just came in on Blue Branson.”
Taking the paper, I scan the list and read it aloud. “Arrested in 1978 for possession of a controlled substance. No conviction. Two years later, he was convicted of felony assault and did four months in Mansfield. Nothing after that.”
“He’s kept his nose clean since he found God and turned his life around,” Pickles says dryly. “But thirty-five years ago, he was a scary fuckin’ guy.”
I consider everything I know about Blue Branson and the stark contrasts between the man he is now and the man who chalked up an arrest record—and I can’t quite reconcile the two. “Do you think Blue’s church is some kind of cover for something else?”
“Oh, no.” Pickles gives a short laugh. “I think that son of a bitch got saved, all right. But all the praying in the world can’t change who you are, and it doesn’t erase the things you did in your past. I think Old Blue’s trying hard to save his own soul. And I think he’s probably got a ways to go before he gets the job done.”
*
Fifteen minutes later, Skid and I are in my Explorer heading south on a gravel track that runs parallel with Painters Creek. The ditches on both sides of the road are filled to the brim with runoff from the rain. The gravel beneath the tires feels spongy and I can hear the mud and stones pinging against the wheel wells. We cross a small bridge and even in the darkness, I can see that the creek is swollen to twice its normal size. If the rain doesn’t let up soon, we’re going to be dealing with serious flooding issues.
I park next to a brown Riviera, circa 1975, and shut down the engine. Through the trees, I see the yellow glow of lights and the silhouette of a modest frame house.
“So Michaels called McCullough a few hours before he was murdered?” Skid asks.
I’d briefed him on the case on the drive over. “Pickles says they knew each other when they were young. I thought it was worth a visit.”
We get out of the Explorer. The woods around us are extremely dark, so I grab my Maglite and aim it toward the house. The cone of light illuminates a crude path through the trees. Gravel, clumps of concrete, and pieces of plywood are tossed about haphazardly, forming just enough of a walkway to keep our shoes from being swallowed by mud.
The drizzle is cold against my face and hands as I start down the path. It winds through mature trees and eventually takes us to the front porch, which is lighted with a bare yellow bulb. I open a storm door and knock. While we wait, I discern the roar of rushing water from Painters Creek behind the house. I wonder how far the house is from the water.
The door swings open and I find myself looking at a short gray-haired man with a snarlish mouth and wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses of which are smeared with fingerprints.
“Jerrold McCullough?” I ask.
“You’re looking at him.” I hear a hint of the Kentucky hills in his voice. He looks past me at Skid, but he doesn’t smile and makes no move to let us in. “If you’re here to evacuate me, I’m not leaving, so you might as well just turn around and go.” He jabs his thumb in the general direction of the road. “That creek back there hasn’t flooded in thirty years, and it’s not going to flood now.”
“We’re not here about the flooding, Mr. McCullough,” I assure him. “We’d like to come in and ask you a few questions about Dale Michaels.”
“Dale, huh?” He grimaces. “I heard about the murder. Hell of a thing.” But he makes no move to invite us inside and I find myself hoping it doesn’t start raining harder. Talking to McCullough is going to be unpleasant enough without doing it with wet hair and cold rain pouring down my neck.
“Do you mind if we come inside, sir?” I ask.
He’s staring at me as if he’s afraid we’re going to force our way in and cart him off against his will. But after a moment he steps back and opens the door. “Might as well. Come on.”